


Gotham River Has Never Looked So Inviting

by Calacious



Series: Comfort in November and December 2020 [32]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bruce just needs quiet some sleep and Clark, Comfortember 2020, Family Feels, Fluff, M/M, Screaming Child, Suicidal Thoughts, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28144767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: Bruce is at his wit's end. Clark is on a road trip, promoting his latest book, and Damian will not stop crying. He just wants some quiet, some sleep, and Clark.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Series: Comfort in November and December 2020 [32]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1996825
Comments: 6
Kudos: 88
Collections: Comfortember 2020





	Gotham River Has Never Looked So Inviting

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: The suicidal thought is very brief, and it is in response to someone being worn down by non-stop crying.

Timothy’s got his hands on his ears in an attempt to drown out the noise, and his face is screwed up in discomfort, he’s humming to himself and is shooting looks at Bruce, and the screaming infant in his arms, that Bruce is certain are meant to kill. Bruce sends the little boy a look of what he hopes is commiseration. He doesn’t like Damian’s deafening screams either, and no amount of walking, bouncing, and rocking the sixth month old is helping. He’s at the end of his rope, and is ready to throw in the proverbial towel. Not that he’s sure what that means at this point. He, like Timothy, just wants the noise to stop.

Richard and Jason are both making valiant attempts to drown out the incessant screeching by playing one of their newest video games at the highest volume that it can go. Though they’re tucked away in the family room, Bruce can still hear the loud explosions and gunfire in the next room over. It’s pure bedlam, and Bruce’s headache throbs painfully behind his left eye. 

His stomach twists in worry, because Damian has been crying for going on three hours now, and there doesn’t seem to be an end to it in sight. Not only is it trying on the nerves, but it’s also alarming, because Damian’s little belly is taut, his fists are punching at the air, and his feet are kicking. He’s red in the face, and Bruce is at a loss for what to do.

Damian’s been fed, bathed, and diapered. Bruce and the boys spent hours playing with Damian. He’d had his nap earlier in the day. The only thing that hasn’t been the same in Damian’s daily routine is the absence of Clark, who is away on a book tour, and won’t be back for another week. If that is what’s got Damian screaming his head off, they’re doomed. 

“Daddy, make him stop!” Timothy screams, and then he throws himself onto the floor and sobs, which does nothing to help the situation, and leaves Bruce feeling like he’s been kicked in the stomach.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred doesn’t raise his voice, yet somehow it cuts through the din in the house. He’s got his arms held out for Damian, and Bruce doesn’t even hesitate in handing his screaming son over to the butler (who is so much more than a butler - he’s a lifesaver on the best of days, and he’s a godsend in this moment).

Bruce almost cries when Damian’s non-stop crying stops for a few blessed seconds before it starts up again. He feels like collapsing on the floor alongside Timothy who is now turned on his back, one arm’s thrown across his eyes, and the other’s off to the side, as though he’d flung it there. Bruce can relate. He’s ready to toss himself out the window to get away from the infernal noise that is coming from his six month old son. 

Alfred seems nonplussed, and he even holds the hiccoughing, screaming Damian on his shoulder, right next to his ear. Bruce worries that the older man will be deafened by his son’s screams.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred’s voice is calm, and soothing, and his face doesn’t hold any of the tension that Bruce is certain his own face holds. “Go, get a car ready for Master Damian, Timothy and yourself.”

“But--”

“Go,” Alfred says in a voice that Bruce hasn’t heard since he was five and he’d gotten it into his head that cookies would be great to have before dinner, and had broken the cookie jar in his haste to get to the sugary treats. He’d also cut his hand in his attempt to clean up the mess, and Alfred had used that tone of voice on Bruce when he’d told him to stop cleaning up and he hadn’t listened.

It has the same effect now that it did when Bruce was five, and Bruce is on his way out of the room and to the garage on autopilot. He wrangles a booster seat for Timothy, and a carseat for Damian into the back of the Bentley, and then he just stands there, blinking at the car, unsure of what to do next. 

“Get in the car,” Alfred says. 

Damian’s still screaming like a banshee, and Timothy’s got a death grip on one of Alfred’s hands, and a pair of headphones on (which, in hindsight, is really an amazing idea that Bruce wishes he’d had the ability to think of on his own; he also wishes that he had a pair of noise canceling headphones of his own to don right now). It’s clear that Damian’s cries can still be heard above whatever music, or book recording, Timothy is listening to, but Bruce hopes that the sound of it is no more than a dull roar for the distraught boy.

Alfred bundles the boys into the backseat, then heads round to the passenger seat to drop off Damian’s diaper bag and Timothy’s aardvark backpack (the one that he uses when he’s having a particularly difficult day. Bruce feels numb when Alfred shuts the door, and pats the top of the car as a send off.

When Alfred knocks on the window, Bruce rolls it down. “Master Bruce, sitting in the garage with two upset boys is not going to do anyone any good. Take the young masters for a drive, and might I suggest that you make a call to their father on the car phone. I suspect that they might like to hear from him.” 

“Should I get a hotel room?” Bruce asks, still not quite comprehending what it is that Alfred wants him to do now that he’s got Timothy and a still squalling Damian in the car. 

Alfred sighs and shakes his head. “Take them for a drive,” he says. “It always worked wonders for you when you were an infant and you got into one of your tempers.”

“Huh?” Bruce’s brain is simply not up for any complex thinking, not with Damian still screaming, and Timothy’s hitching breaths that indicate he is on the brink of tears once more.

“Drive them around town. Timothy will enjoy the Christmas lights that have no doubt gone up already, and the driving will soothe the young master, and, like it did for you, it will probably lull him to sleep,” Alfred says, taking pity on Bruce and his inability to think a clear thought.

“Oh,” Bruce says, blinking, and then smiling and silently praying that it will work, because if he has to listen to another hour of Damian screaming, he’s going to toss himself into Gotham River, and drown himself just to escape the heartrending noise of his son’s cries.

“Off with you now,” Alfred says, patting Bruce’s hand. “I’ll take care of Masters Richard and Jason.”

Bruce doesn’t even have enough wits about him to say, thank you, before he rolls up the window and leaves the driveway. Some part of him registers the fact that Alfred watches him leave, and then heads back into the house once Bruce has started down the drive. 

Timothy’s face has lost some of its tension, and the little boy’s shoulders are no longer bunched around his ears, which is rather amazing, considering they’ve not even made it to the gate at the end of the long driveway. Damian’s cries seem a little less distressed, too (or maybe that’s just wishful thinking). In either case, the gate is open, and Bruce drives out without any destination in mind, just a desperate desire to help his sons (and regain his own sanity).

The drive does very little at first, Damian’s face is still red, his little fists are punching the air, and his feet are kicking like mad, but his crying is definitely losing some of its ear splitting volume. It's not until they’re entering the city that Bruce remembers Alfred suggested that he call Clark, whom (if he’s honest with himself) he is more than a little eager to speak with himself. He misses Clark, no matter that the man only left on his book tour earlier that morning, and they’d planned a call for the next day. He knows that Clark won’t mind that he’s calling earlier than intended.

“Call Clark,” Bruce says aloud. The system in his car dials Clark, and Bruce is expecting to listen to the music that Clark has set up for the ringback tone, but the man answers before the first ring has finished out its tone.

“Bruce? Is everything alright?” Clark asks, and Bruce almost weeps with relief, because he hadn’t realized how much he needed this. 

Damian’s cries stop almost immediately, and he lets out a pathetic sounding query of, “Papa?” that nearly breaks Bruce’s heart.

“Hey, D baby, how’s my sweet boy?” Clark asks, and Damian starts looking around for his Papa, brow furrowing when he can’t find him in the car.

“We’ve had a rough day,” Bruce says, voice cracking. Now that Damian’s stopped crying, Bruce finds himself on the verge of tears himself.

Timothy’s moved his headphones from his ears, and is biting his lip. “Papa?” he asks on a sob.

“Oh, Timbo, what’s wrong, buddy?” Clark asks, and Bruce really wants to drive all the way to New York City so that they can spend the next week on the road with Clark. 

“Damian wouldn’t stop crying, and Daddy couldn’t make him stop,” Timothy says. 

He’s glancing sidelong at Damian who has finally quieted down, seeming content to listen to his Papa speaking. His fists are no longer clawing at the air, and his feet, though they are still kicking, are not doing so in an angry manner. 

“I’m so sorry, baby,” Clark says, and Bruce knows that he’s talking to all three of them, not just Timothy.

“We miss you,” Bruce says, and it’s crazy because it’s not even been a full day. 

Clark chuckles, as Bruce knew he would. “I miss you, too,” he says. “It’s going to be a long week.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Bruce says, already envisioning daily screaming jags for Damian, and breakdowns for Timothy, and deteriorating behavior for the older boys. He wishes he could fast forward through the week, or sleep through it. He doubts that Alfred would approve, or allow it.

“I think we’re going to need to up our planned call schedule,” Clark says, and Bruce readily agrees.

“How does every hour sound?” Bruce asks, only half-joking. 

“I don’t think my agent would like that much,” Clark says, though it’s not a hard no, so Bruce has hope that there can be more frequent calls between the two of them, and with the boys.

“We’re lost without you,” Bruce admits. 

“Yeah,” Timothy agrees. “Daddy doesn’t know how to make Damian fly the way he likes, an’ he doesn’t know how to cut up Little D’s bananas, or rub his tummy the way you do.”

Bruce gets the feeling that, in Timothy’s eyes, and maybe in the eyes of all of his children, there’s nothing he can do right, and it’s enough to make him return to his thoughts of Gotham’s cold river water. He’d probably freeze on contact. 

“Maybe you can help your daddy, little buddy,” Clark says. “I’m sure that he’s doing his best, and it’s not easy taking care of four little boys all on his own.”

“But he’s got Alfie, and I don’t want to make Little D fly,” Timothy says.

“Why not?” Clark asks.

Timothy shrugs, and turns to look out the window. “He’s so mean.”

“He’s only a baby,” Bruce says. “Babies can’t be mean.”

“But he bites me,” Timothy says, turning to glare at Bruce through the rearview mirror. “And he slobbers on me, and he always takes my toys, and you and Papa only ever have time for him.”

Instead of reasoning with the little boy, or arguing with him, Clark, as usual, knows just the right thing to say, and it’s a good thing that he speaks before Bruce can figure out what it is that he wants to say, because whatever it would have been would not have been the right thing. At least not right now, when his emotions are all over the place because his youngest son wouldn’t stop crying for three and a half hours. 

“Tell you what, buddy,” Clark says, and Timothy leans forward in his seat at the tone in Clark’s voice. “How about when I get back, you, your Daddy, and I do something just the three of us?”

“Really?” Timothy asks, he’s giving Bruce a skeptical look that makes Bruce’s stomach twist, because since when had he become the bad guy?

“You pick the place,” Clark says, and Bruce gives Timothy a smile that seems to ease the little boy.

“Gotham museum,” he says without even thinking it over. “And the zoo,” he adds. “And I wanna get ice cream, too.”

“You’ve got it,” Clark says, and Bruce nods. “I’m sorry that your little brother isn’t being very nice to you right now,” he adds. “You’re one of his big brothers, so you’ll need to help teach him that it’s not okay to bite, and how to share toys. Okay?”

Timothy frowns and gives the now sleeping Damian a look that is hard to decipher. He sighs as though the world is being asked of him, and nods. “Okay,” he says in a very put upon voice. “But it’s not going to be easy, he doesn’t even know how to do anything yet.”

Chuckling, Clark says, “I’m sure that you’ll be a great teacher for him, little buddy.”

Timothy seems to ponder that for a bit, before he perks up and squares his shoulder. “I’ll teach him everything I know,” he promises. “But I won’t let him slobber all over my hand, or my favorite teddy.”

“Fair enough,” Clark says. “I love you, and I’m proud of you.”

Timothy blushes, and mutters something too low for any of them to hear. He seems to puff up a little at the praise, and then he smiles and settles into his seat. “I love you,” he says. “I want you to come home.”

“I’ll be home before you know it,” Clark promises. “Be good for your Daddy, and Alfred, okay?”

“Okay,” Timothy says, nodding. 

“Thank you,” Bruce says once he notices that Timothy’s got his headphones back on, and is playing with a computer game that Alfred had sent with him. 

“Bruce, sweetheart, how are you doing?” Clark asks, and there’s a wealth of emotion in his words, and there are tears in Bruce’s eyes that he does not want to let spill, because it’s ridiculous.

“I’m tired, and I miss you,” Bruce admits. “God, Clark, you didn’t hear him crying. It was...” he shudders and swallows as a sense of hopelessness threatens to overwhelm him. “I didn’t know what to do, and I couldn’t get him to stop, and Tim’s right, I’m a complete and utter failure at being a father.”

“I don’t think you heard Tim correctly,” Clark says. “You’re not a failure, Bruce.”

“I’m just not you,” Bruce says. “You’re the one who makes upset tummies better, and knows how to make the kids fly and cut up bananas. I didn’t even know I could mess up the cutting of bananas. How does one fuck that kind of thing up?”

“Bruce,” Clark cuts in before Bruce can go into full on panic mode. “Tim’s tired, and he’s five. He misses me, and he’s had to listen to his little brother cry all afternoon. He didn’t mean what he said as an attack. He loves you, and needs you just as much as I, and the others, do. And the trick to cutting up the bananas is to cut them lengthwise first, then you cut each half in half, and then chop each quarter up into half inch chunks.”

“And the trick to flying?” Bruce asks, wiping away an errant tear. 

“There’s no trick to that,” Clark says, as though it’s easy, and Bruce hadn’t spent a half an hour failing at it earlier that day. “All you have to do is make sure that you support his belly, and make whooshing sounds. He likes to go up and down and in a figure eight pattern.”

Bruce can feel the tension bleed from his body at those words, and it’s ridiculous, and wonderful, and Bruce wants to kiss Clark right now, but they’re too many miles apart. Damian’s snoring softly and Timothy’s eyes are closed, the game he’d been playing moments before is dangling loosely from one hand, and Clark is talking to him about his day, and a waitress who recognized him and was giddy about his new book, and how awesome his fans were. Bruce lets the sound of Clark’s voice wash over him as he crosses Gotham River, not even glancing toward her dark, churning waters. 

By the time that Bruce parks the car in the garage, both boys are snoring, and his heart is much lighter. His head is clearer as well, and Alfred is standing at the door leading from the garage to the house, a mug of something that Bruce is willing to bet is warm milk, with a touch of honey, in his hands. 

“Thank you, Clark,” Bruce says. “You don’t know how much I, we, needed to hear your voice.”

“I needed to hear yours just as much,” Clark admits. “I don’t know how I’m going to make it through the week, and this is just the beginning of my book tour. I think I’m going to have to postpone the rest of it.”

“No, don’t do that, we’ll figure something out,” Bruce says. “I’ll get better at this single parenting thing, and --”

“And, I want you with me,” Clark says, voice thick with emotion. “You and the boys. I’m thinking about a summer tour, that way we wouldn’t have to take the boys out of school, and that should give you plenty of time to figure out things at WE, right, so you can take vacation?”

“You really think that would work?” Bruce asks, nearly dizzy with relief, because he doesn’t know if he can survive another day like today, let alone a week, or several weeks, without Clark beside him.

“I’ll make it work,” Clark says, determined. 

“I’ll make it work, too, then,” Bruce says, already mentally going through his schedule and determining what can be moved around to allow him a summer long vacation with his family. He knows his father and mother would approve; they’ve been trying to get him to spend less time at the office, and more time at home as it is.

“Sounds good, I love you,” Clark says. 

“I love you more,” Bruce says. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Call me when the boys wake up,” Clark says. 

“I will,” Bruce promises. 

It’s hard to hang up, but Bruce can sense that Damian is starting to stir, and he needs to get Timothy and Damian out of the car and into their beds, hopefully without jarring either boy awake. Thankfully Alfred is there, having stowed the steaming cup of milk on a workbench, to help him carry the boys into the house, and get them into their pajamas. 

Timothy doesn’t even stir. When he’s out, he’s out, and nothing short of an earthquake can wake him (Bruce has his doubts that even an earthquake would wake his third child). 

Damian does wake for a few seconds, scowling at Bruce in a way that is familiar. “Papa?” he inquires, and sniffs, and Bruce has a moment of panic before Damian snuffles and buries his face into Bruce’s neck, fingers bunching the fabric of Bruce’s shirt. 

Kissing the top of Damian’s head, Bruce holds the infant a few minutes longer until it’s clear that moving him will not wake him. Even then, it’s hard to place Damian into his crib, because like this, peaceful and snoring, his baby’s an angel. 

“Master Bruce,” Alfred whispers. “Masters Jason and Richard are in their rooms, waiting for their goodnight kisses, I’ve taken the liberty of making you a mug of warm milk, just the way you liked it when you were a lad of Master Timothy’s age. I’ve placed it on your nightstand. I think a good night’s rest is what’s called for all around, wouldn’t you?”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce says. He places Damian in his crib, and then envelops Alfred in a hug that is at first stiffly returned, but eases into something more comfortable. 

“There, there, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, patting him on the back. “Everything’s alright. Drink your sweet milk, and get a good night’s rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Alfred, and Clark, are both right, things to do look better and brighter in the morning. The boys still fight with each other over breakfast, and Damian fusses when, even after cutting the bananas up in the way that Clark told him to, he still manages to mess it up, and Timothy still glares at Damian when the little boy drools on him, but he finds that he’s a little more sure of himself. And, buoyed with the morning call, and the assurance that Clark had been able to rearrange his book tour, he’s even feeling like maybe things will be manageable this week, even without Clark there to help him through it. 

And if Bruce has to take an evening drive every night the week that Clark is gone, to help Damian fall asleep, with all of the boys along for the drive, well, it’s fine, and it helps them all feel better when they get to talk to Clark as they look at the city all decked out in pretty lights.


End file.
